


at the cutting board

by deadseasalt



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Food Porn, Food critic!Tsukki, M/M, Oikage Big Bang 2017, Sushi Chef AU, saltyshima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12841197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadseasalt/pseuds/deadseasalt
Summary: Sushi chef AU.Tooru doesn't know why he keeps coming to Tobio's sushi restaurant. He hates the doom-and-gloom interior design, hates the inadequate customer service, hates the way Tobio's fingers gently press the grains of perfectly cooked rice together into a perfectly made shari. And yet. Tooru finds himself leaving his own restaurant to Iwa-chan just to have omakase at Tobio's in Shinjuku every Wednesday at two.





	at the cutting board

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HetaliaBunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HetaliaBunny/gifts).



> Happy birthday!
> 
> This was done in part for the Oikage Big Bang 2017. I had an awesome time writing it. Sushi-making and sushi culture is really interesting and complicated, beginning with the rice, the fish, the knives, and there's also the way sushi chefs (itamae) must carry themselves. That being said, I'm not Japanese, and if there are any errors in the fic, please do tell me. Otherwise, enjoy, and check out the wonderful, wonderful [ art ](http://hetaliabunnyart.tumblr.com/post/168260449713/at-the-cutting-board-by-deadseasalt-dont-have) [hetaliabunnyart](http://hetaliabunnyart.tumblr.com) made for this!!
> 
> Lots of love for [takingtea-and-tellingtales](http://takingtea-and-tellingtales.tumblr.com) and [jiyong](http://jiyong.tumblr.com) for betaing <3

_Spring_

__

“Yoohoo, Tobio-chan!” Tooru says, pulling out a stool from under the bar. “Long time no see!”

Behind the counter, Tobio stops sharpening his deba knife and looks up at Tooru. “I saw you last Wednesday, Oikawa-san.”

Tooru tsks. “Is that any way to greet a customer, Tobio-chan? I have no idea how you became an itamae; how do you conduct conversations with the tuna with such an unwelcoming personality?” He pauses and turns to look at the dimly-lit bar and the delicate plum blossom painting on the wall. The pale pink blossoms clashed terribly with Tobio’s unpleasant character. “That, and your atrocious taste in interior design.”

“What’s wrong with my taste in interior design?”

Tobio is annoyed. Tooru can tell by how each sharpening stroke becomes more brisk and jerky, how Tobio’s fingers, wickedly white against the dark carbon-steel of the blade, pushes the knife too hard against the stone. A stab of satisfaction runs through him. Tobio has always been easy to rile up.

“Well,” Tooru scissors a peace-sign. “How are you going to admire my gorgeous face in this sort of lighting?’

Tobio sighs, and mutters something like, “that was the point,” before setting down his knife and wiping his hands on the towel at his waist. “What do you want, Oikawa-san.”

To be honest, Tooru doesn’t quite know what he wants. He had told himself that he would never ever come back to Tobio’s sushiya after the last time, when the fatty cut tuna sashimi Tobio had beautifully sliced for him had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And yet, here he is.

Tooru forces himself to grin, turning up the corners of his mouth to make his smile extra saccharine. “Why, Tobio-chan,” he says, “I’m here for the omakase, of course.”

“Aren’t you a more seasoned itamae than I am? Go make your own. We’re closed.”

“But I can hardly surprise and please myself, can I?” That was the wrong thing to say. It meant that Tobio could surprise and please Tooru. “And anyway, your shop door was unlocked.”

“There was a closed sign at the window. But of course you would ignore a perfectly clear closed sign. And you didn’t have anything nice to say about my omakase last time, either.”

The last accusation is said hurriedly, in soft tones, and if Tooru doesn’t know Tobio any better, he would think that it contained a little hurt.

“Your omakase this week shouldn’t be the same as last week’s.” Tooru stretches his arms above his head. “Any kind of sushi-making should change with the seasons.”

Tobio wets a new whetstone lightly before picking up his knife, pushing the blade across the finer surface, his movements still rough. “It was spring last week, and it’s still spring this week. Change doesn’t happen so quickly.”

Tobio doesn’t say you should know, but Tooru hears the words as clearly as he does the scrape of Tobio’s knife against the stone. He clenches his fist and ignores Tobio’s comment in favour of shifting on his stool to get more comfortable. “Omakase, Tobio-chan. Best not to keep your clients waiting.”

“I’ll kill you, I swear.”

Tooru eyes the blade in Tobio’s hand. The handle has “Kitagawa” etched out in kanji on chipped wood. Tooru blinks, and thinks that he’d read the characters wrong, that there was no way Tobio would keep a Kitagawa knife with him after what had happened. But the words, though faded, are undeniably there. The edge of the knife is sharp, extremely well-whetted, and Tooru recalls how Tobio used to hate taking care of knives, preferring to rely on his genius slicing technique and superior sense of ingredient quality. He’s changed, Tooru realizes. Improved.

_You should know._

He feels his heart drop, heavier than the grey whetstone Tobio is putting away with a roll of his eyes.

“You deba bocho cuts off fish heads, not human ones,” Tooru says, as lightly as he can manage. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten everything our sensei has taught you.”

A flush of pink blooms across Tobio’s face, and he slides his gaze away. And, as the thought of how the lighting may not be too bad after all flits across his mind, Tooru knows he shouldn’t have brought up Kitagawa-sensei at all. He watches as Tobio pulls out a cutting board and sets a yanagiba knife on top of it. Tobio inhales, his fingers following the edges of the board reverently. When he breathes out again, the intimate moment is gone; the pink on his face has wilted and is succeeded by an annoyed look.

“Is there anything you don’t eat?”

“Bonito.”

They’re familiar with each other’s preferences, but he supposes Tobio is following itamae etiquette by asking, as a professional should. Back at Kitagawa-sensei’s, Tooru had made a big deal of not like bonito. He didn’t actually dislike it, but Tobio’s favourite fish had been bonito because it was one of the most flexible ingredients. Tooru would rather convince himself bonito would make him sick than make things easy for Tobio.

Tobio nods. “Anything else?”

Tooru gives him a nasty glare. “I’m not a picky eater!”

Tobio snorts, and then presses his mouth into a hard line as he turns away. Tooru has the strangest feeling that Tobio is trying not to laugh at him.

He’s served wild seabream sashimi first. Tobio’s yanagiba knife flashes as he slices through the pink-white flesh with irritatingly natural ease, and he’s painstakingly careful as he arranges the pieces on top of a shiso leaf, lining the edge of the plate with turnip shreds. The bright green of the wasabi mound in the corner compliments the plate’s pretty, pink sakura motif: new beginnings.

The fish is fresh, probably picked up from Tsukiji Market a few stations down yesterday or the day before. The wasabi sings bold in his his mouth, and the shiso and turnip are crisp. It’s one of the best sashimi Tooru’s had all year. Not that he would admit this out loud.

He coughs and summons tears to his eyes. “Idiot,” he says, “you grated the wasabi too early, didn’t you?”

“How was I supposed to know you were going to waste so much time insulting my interior design?” Tobio doesn’t look up as he hands Tooru another sashimi dish. This time, it’s seared seabass. “The wasabi should be better now.”

It was. And nothing was really wrong with it in the first place. Tooru wants to go home. Why was he here in the first place?

But he can’t leave now. It would be too much of an insult, even if Tooru is Tobio’s senpai. So he scarfs down his seabass and tries not to think about perfection and Tobio’s effortlessness and consistency in achieving it.

Putting down his chopsticks, Tooru watches Tobio work. Tobio’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. His movements are surgical, precise, with no wasted effort or time in them. His fingers, though, they’re gentle. He handles his ingredients as if they’re something fragile, something rare.

Saba konbujime, scallops grilled in the shell with a dash of shoyu and sake, sea urchin gunkan with burnished orange of the umi securely wrapped in nori; omakase. It means Tooru is leaving things up to Tobio. It means he’s trusting Tobio to give him his best, and Tobio doesn’t disappoint. He never does. He’s polished his plating skills as well. Before, he had been the type to say something like, “the fish and the marinade will speak for itself,” like, “plating is superficial and sushi has no need for it,” like, “stop wasting time making the flowers look nice and slice better, Kindaichi.” Tooru had been the one who’d known the importance of it, who had worked hard to excel in not only the craft, but also the art of sushi making. But now, Tobio is carefully placing the purple shiso flowers onto the next dish of fried fish, his tongue sticking out. He looks like he’s holding in his breath.

Tooru looks away and focusses on eating the gunkan. He bites into it, and the succulent flesh of the urchin leans into his tastebuds. The rice grains, he notes, are all aligned in one direction, something Kitagawa-sensei said only the best itamae could achieve, and trust Tobio to achieve it. Kitagawa-sensei would probably never call Tobio “best” now, but the rice grains are neat and uniform, and Tooru supposes Tobio is best, is best at being best, is best at reminding Tooru of it at every possible opportunity.

_You should know._

Why is he here again?

“So,” he says, as Tobio whisks his gunkan dish away, replacing it with the one Tooru had watched him garnish. “Still not very talkative, are you? That’s very bad treatment of a client, Tobio-chan. It makes him feel neglected.”

“I thought you didn’t like me when I talked. You hated it when I asked you to show me how to make the perfect rice.”

Tooru pops his piece of fish into his mouth and waves his chopsticks at Tobio. “An itamae never shares his secret rice recipe. Not to his underclassmen, not to anyone.”

“You share it now with your apprentices. Kyoutani and Yahaba,” Tobio says. “You’re nicer, somehow. Relatively.” He’s making tamago, Japanese omelette, flawlessly folding the egg into itself again and again. Tooru is about to remark that an apprentice’s first job is to get the itamae’s rice recipe right, that it has nothing to do with how nice he is, when he realizes that Tobio is looking at him, his eyes a bright, brilliant blue in the semi-darkness. He loses what he was going to say. He almost loses his breath.

He chews on the fish slowly, methodically, giving himself time to recuperate. He allows himself ten seconds.

“Don’t go overboard with your compliments now, Tobio-chan.” Tooru’s mouth is still so dry. “And how do you know about Mad Dog-chan and Yahaba-chan? Have you been stalking me?”

“Something like that,” Tobio replies, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into something like a smile. Tobio's smile. He's grown into that as well.

When Tooru leaves, he leaves with vigour, shredding Tobio’s tamago and everything he’s made for Tooru with scathing, undeserved criticism. “You still plate like an apprentice, Tobio-chan. You should have learned properly instead of hogging all the technical tasks to yourself back at Kitagawa-sensei’s.”

Tobio is quiet for a moment. Then, putting his cutting board away, he says, “That’s true. I should have learned properly.” He gets out from behind the counter and bows. “Thank you for your patronage.”

This damn brat.

“That’s not what you said when I came in.”

“I am very grateful.” Tobio stares at him, gaze fierce with something unfamiliar. Something that Tooru can’t read.

“Why are you here, Oikawa-san?” His tone is almost gentle, like he’s probing at a new ingredient and deciding what to do with it. It’s ironic because Tooru’s nothing new to Tobio, just an old barrier he’s long overcome on his journey to unforeseeable heights.

It’s also ironic because this question isn’t new either. It’s something Tobio had asked Tooru his last couple of times here as well.

Tooru’s heart beats an irregular rhythm as he gives his regular answer: “I came to make sure you still haven’t beat me yet, Tobio-chan!”

__

Back in Ginza, Tooru finds an irate Hajime waiting with his arms crossed at their shop entranceway.

“Where were you?”

“You’re blocking all the good fengshui, Iwa-chan.”

Tooru walks into the shop, crumpling up his return ticket from Shinjuku and throwing it into the trash. He takes off his trench coat. Tobio was right; it’s still spring, but soon it will be summer and Tooru won’t have to wear clothing this heavy anymore.

Hajime follows him. “That’s not how fengshui works, Shittykawa. And don’t change the topic.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that I had two mothers.”

Hajime eyes him as he puts on his uniform. “You’re up to something. I know it. You’ve been gone for a couple Wednesdays now. Usually you eat your lunch at the back, making small talk with your alien friends.”

“We don’t make small talk,” Tooru says haughtily, brushing off imaginary lint from his front. “We have philosophical discussions about the mysteries of the universe. Things you’d never understand.”

Hajime snorts. “Things you’d never understand either, considering they’re mysteries.”

Tooru puffs out his chest. “It’ll be my mission to solve them.”

A towel smacks him the face. “Owww!” he pulls his face into a pained expression, even though Hajime never makes anything hurt.

Hajime’s eyes are soft. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.

“When have I ever?” Tooru lies. “Don’t look so worried, Iwa-chan. The expression doesn’t suit you.”

 

_Summer_

__

Spring rounds into summer. Tooru visits Tobio’s sushiya for a few Wednesdays more before he gets tied up in his own. He tells himself that it’s fine. He doesn’t want to go back anyway. But one week in June, when the business has returned to a steady pace, Tooru finds himself on the subway bound for Shinjuku. By then, the weather is warmer than it’s been all year. All the cherry blossom petals have fallen to the ground, and shy, new leaves have left their hiding places in branches and bloomed.

As always, his eyes have to blink rapidly to adjust to the gloom. Even though the early afternoon sun is shining outside, only a few of its rays make it into the shop.

When he opens his eyes next, an orange ball of excitement is hurtling toward him. Startled, Tooru takes a step back. What on earth –

“Oi, dumbass Hinata, what are you doing? You’re a wakiita, so stay _beside_ the cutting board and assist–”

Tobio stops and stares at Tooru. “You’re here again,” he says, sounding strange.

“Well,” Tooru says brightly, “coming here is my favourite Wednesday activity! How can I miss it?”

The orange ball, whose name is Hinata, leans into Tooru’s space and looks him up and down curiously. Then his eyes widen as something clicks. “You’re the Grand King?” He whispers.

Grand King?

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to people,” Tobio tells Hinata. He turns to Tooru. “Ignore him. He’s had one too many sugary drinks this morning.”

“I don’t usually work today,” Hinata adds.

Tobio knees him in his left thigh. He yelps. “You’re the one who insisted on changing shifts.”

“I wanted to see why you’re so insistent on me taking Wednesdays off. Since you normally rotate my off-days.” Hinata massages his leg, grinning. “And now my pain and hard work have paid off!” He knees Tobio in return. “It’s unfair to keep the Grand King all to yourself, Kageyama. I want to learn from and then defeat the greatest, too.”

Tooru’s heart stutters. Tobio? Keep?

“Oikawa-san is not the greatest!”

“Don’t lie! He’s the one you keep waxing rhapsodic about wanting to beat!”

Tooru’s heart is beating a rampage up his throat. He forces himself to swallow. “Now, now, boys.” He tries flashing them a megawatt smile. It feels all wrong. “No need to fight. I’m just here for omakase. I’m not teaching Tobio-chan any special ninja skills.”

“I’ve tried asking,” Tobio mutters. “Quite a few times.”

Tooru looks up, catches his gaze, and looks away again. “That you have,” he says.

Tobio and Hinata, whom Tooru has taken to calling “Chibi-chan” in his head, make a good team. It’s something completely unexpected from Tobio, considering his track-record of monopolizing and controlling every task that interested him during his apprenticeship days. But Tobio gives Chibi-chan more fish to cut than Tooru would give his own apprentices, only grunts when he inspects the rice Chibi-chan has made, and doesn’t even chip him for talking to Tooru as he cheerfully slices apart a slab of blood-red maguro.

“This is for Yamaguchi,” Chibi-chan says, gesturing at the maguro with his knife. “He works at the pet store down the road! He usually comes over for lunch, but they’re really busy this month so he’s only ordering takeout. I’m kind of glad! I mean, I love having Yamaguchi over, but if he’s ordering takeout, that means I can make his food! I can only make takeout food, you know?”

Tooru knows. All wakiita start off by preparing sushi rice. They aren’t allowed to touch anything else until the itamae is satisfied with their performance, which usually takes five years. Tobio had only set up his own restaurant four years ago, hadn’t he? Which means that Chibi-chan is either a genius himself for perfecting the rice and moving onto takeout food in such a short period of time, or that Tobio was soft on him.

“– It’s kind of unfair that Kageyama gets to take on the big bosses by himself,” Chibi-chan is saying. “I’m just as good as he is when it comes to knife techniques!” He switches his grip on his knife and slices faster, sharper, as if to prove himself. “And I’m a lot better him in customer service.”

Tooru laughs. “I can believe that.”

“Maybe so, dumbass Hinata,” Tobio says. “But you’re still shitty at the most basic things. Like cleaning up after yourself.”

Tobio slides a katsuo tataki onto the counter in front of Tooru. The bonito is chopped roughly, but Tooru knows there’s nothing rough about the dish itself. The seared exterior of the fish will blend smoothly with the raw interior, and the garnish made with myoga and ginger will give the smoothness some zing.

“I told you I don’t like bonito.”

“You’re lying,” says Tobio simply, rinsing his cutting board in preparation for the next dish. “I’ve seen you order bonito with Iwaizumi-san once when we went out for food with Kitagawa-sensei. You smacked your lips and said ‘oishi.’”

Tooru flushes. He knew exactly which outing Tobio was talking about; that time when Kitagawa-sensei bought a bottle of expensive sake and let Tooru and Hajime each have a little bit.

“I did not!”

“You did.” Tobio’s lips are pressed into that thin line again. Tooru’s knows he’s laughing at him. He feels his blush spread down his body and hopes he was wrong last time and that the lightning is shit enough to cover it.

“I told you that I didn’t want bonito for omakase.”

“You made that specification weeks ago,” Tobio corrected him. “Omakase changes with the seasons."

Tooru glares at him, and Tobio lowers his gaze. "Look, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” he says, his hand reaching for the plate. “I’m sorry I ignored your previous request.”

“I’m not letting a perfectly good fish go to waste,” Tooru snaps, reaching for the plate as well.

Their fingers brush.

Tobio’s hands are nothing like what Tooru’s imagined.

All this time, Tooru’d thought Tobio’s hands would be clammy and cold, like steel, like a machine, powered by a single-minded focus to become better than Tooru. Tobio’s touch is warm, though, and Tooru feels the callouses and the places where blisters bled from holding a blade too tight, all wrong, and it’s…It’s like someone is holding Tooru’s heart that way, too.

He jerks his hand away.

Chibi-chan is saying something.

"Sorry?"

“Oh, I was just saying that Bakageyama can be pretty nasty sometimes, but he does make the best sushi.” Chibi-chan is done making his friend’s takeout now. He puts the sushi container in a white plastic bag with a circular black logo of three mountains and a bird on the front. The bag crinkles loudly when he ties the handles together.

“And he makes the best rice,” Chibi-chan continues, giving Tobio a thumbs up. “I try my best with mine but it’s not like his. He’s amazing that way.”

Tobio is watching Tooru. “I had a senpai who was amazing like that.”

Something in Tooru aches.

“Ehhhh,” Chibi-chan says. “I bet everyone at Kitagawa-sensei’s was amazing.”

He takes off to deliver the food to his friend at the pet shop, and then it’s just Tooru and Tobio and a yawning chasm of silence between them.

“He’s good, Chibi-chan,” Tooru tells Tobio, deciding that he can be honest just this once. “He brings out the best in you, even though your best is nothing to write home about.”

Tobio replaces the empty plate in Tooru’s hands with one carrying two octopus nigiri. “Just like you bring out the worst?”

“I’ll have you know that I bring out the best in everyone,” Tooru blusters, but the ache deepens. They’re awful for each other, him and Tobio. He remembers when Tobio had asked him one too many times to teach him how to make the perfect rice ball, something he would have definitely honed himself with breakneck speed. Tooru had almost hit him. Would have, if Hajime hadn’t stepped in and grabbed him. Tooru had apologized after, feeling ugly. He was really at his ugliest when he was around Tobio.

“I know,” Tobio says. “You have that ability when you set your mind to it.”

He sets a plate on the counter. It’s dorayaki, and the way it’s presented is breathtaking. The dorayaki is the disk of a sunflower, and petals of chocolate syrup fan out from it. The stem and leaves are dustings of matcha powder.

“It’s – you bake?”

Tobio scratches at his cheek, frowning. “Hinata does, and he always insists on showing off. So dessert is dorayaki.”

Oh. So it’s Chibi-chan’s work. Tooru feels relieved. Like he’s taking his first breath of air after being dragged around by raging waters. “His sunflower plating is cute.”

Tobio’s hand moves from his cheek to the back of his neck. Tooru follows the motion with his eyes. Tobio’s neck is red. “No, that was me.” He coughs. “Can’t let Hinata take all the credit himself.”

And Tooru is dragged back under the waves. Tobio is always doing that, leaving him breathless, choking for oxygen, trying his best to stay afloat but failing. He shoves the dorayaki in his mouth and chews furiously, swipes his fork around to mess up the chocolate, to mess up the element of surprise that is Tobio.

What is he doing here?

He jumps up and throws down the money for the meal.

“Is it that bad?” Tobio seems anxious, but Tooru brushes it aside; Tobio is never anxious.

Swallowing hurts. “Since when do you care about my opinion, Tobio-chan?”

“Why are you here, Oikawa-san?”

Maybe Tobio thinks if he asks this question enough times, he’ll get the answer he wants from Tooru. And maybe, if Tooru responds differently enough times, he won't get to the answer he doesn’t want to know.

He looks out of the windows, can faintly hear the cicadas outside singing their new song.

“It’s not spring anymore, Tobio-chan.” And he hopes that his answer is cryptic enough so Tobio won’t know he has no idea what he’s talking about.

 

_Autumn_

__

“You’re spending your Wednesdays back here again,” Hajime says as he leans over Tooru fixing his K-2SO figurine, “having discussions about the mysteries of the universe instead of god-knows-what you were doing in the spring and summer. Had any breakthroughs?”

Tooru doesn’t want to think about the spring and summer, the dark coziness of Tobio’s sushiya, the quiet scrape of his knife, the shape of his mouth, pressed hard into an almost smile. It’s autumn now; spring and summer are things of the past. “How dare you make fun of our discussions, Iwa-chan?! How dare you laugh in the face of science?!”

“Science? I though your discussions were philosophical.”

“Some scientists are Doctors of Philosophy!”

Hajime laughs. “I suppose they are.”

Tooru adjusts K-2SO’s arm into a more defensive position. “Is there something you wanted from me, Iwa-chan? This room is reserved for friends only.”

“I wasn’t even aware you had any friends.”

Setting aside K-2SO, Tooru turns around and butts his head into Hajime’s ribcage. Hajime lets out a groan of pain and reaches up to push at Tooru’s shoulder roughly. His hands are warm, despite the chilliness the September morning had brought along during its walk in the neighbourhood.

“That hurt, Oikawa. What are you? Five?”

“What are you, Iwa-chan?” Tooru retorts. “Five-ten rounded up and still shorter than me?”

“I’m five-eleven, asshole!”

“And I’m six-one,” Tooru says loftily.

“You’re at a disadvantage.” Hajime massages the place where Tooru had rammed his head against. “You have to hunch over the cutting board all the time. You look really unattractive!”

Ohhhhh, Tooru hopes he’d at least bruised one of Hajime’s ribs.

“Why are you here, Iwa-chan? I thought you avoided intellectual activity of any sort because you didn’t have any brain cells.”

“I didn’t think over-analyzing conspiracy theories required any neurons at all.” Hajime brings an arm up just in case Tooru hit him again. He’s right to be cautious. After all, Tooru has to get revenge for all those times Hajime had hit him. “Anyway, I put an order in for 30 kilos of sanma. They should arrive sometime tomorrow.”

Sanma is Tooru’s favourite fish. He loves how the kanji means “autumn sword,” and the way the blade of their bodies glide above the surface of the water as they move away from danger, and the way the flesh tastes bitter and sweet at the same time.

“I knew you loved me, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime cuffs him across his left bicep. “None of the 30 kilos are for you, moron.”

Tooru grins. “Are they not?”

Hajime cuffs him across his right bicep.

Tooru bats Hajime’s hand away. “Yeah, I know, they’re for the sushiya, blah blah blah. But honestly, Iwa-chan, you could have just told me when I retook my rightful place as chef after lunch. If you were that desperate to talk to me, you should have just said so!”

“No one wants to actually talk to you, Oikawa,” Hajime growls. “It’s always a chore!” But then his annoyance morphs into something softer, something like uncertainty. “It’s just. I got an invitation to Kageyama’s sushiya on Sunday.”

The bottom falls out of Tooru’s stomach. “Isn’t it a little rude of him to invite us to his sushiya-warming party when it’s been warm for five years already?”

Hajime lets out a startled laugh. “Shittykawa, I’ve been to Kageyama’s sushiya-warming party. You could have gone and had a good time, too, if you hadn’t been sulking about how Kageyama opened his sushiya before you.”

“I wasn’t sulking.” Tooru was just having a bad day.

“You’re sulking right now!”

“I wasn’t!” Tooru flails his arms at Hajime. “And I don’t know how this invitation for Sunday has anything to do with me. You don’t need my permission to do anything, Iwa-chan. You’re a big boy now.”

Hajime closes his eyes and exhales. Tooru knows he’s trying to count to ten in an effort to keep calm, and he knows that he could make a quip about Hajime being brainless enough to lack the capacity to count, but he doesn’t really want to get hit.

When Hajime’s eyes open again, they’re piercing. They’re knowing. “Kageyama said the invitation extends to you.” Hajime’s voice is weirdly gentle. “You’d be welcome if you want to go.”

Tooru sucks in a breath. “Why would I ever want to go?” he asks harshly. “Spending time with you is bad enough already. Spending it with you and Tobio-chan both makes it doubly worse.”

“Don’t you want to go and crush your kouhai’s little heart by critiquing every single dish he makes like the crappy person that you are, Oikawa? It’ll be an invigorating thing to do on your day off.” Hajime replies. He gives Tooru’s hand a little pat. “Just think about, okay?”

Tooru waits until Hajime has left the room before thinking about it for five seconds. Nope. There is no way he’s going to Tobio’s stupid thing on Sunday.

__

The air is crisp, but it doesn’t bite at Tooru’s exposed ankles as he and Hajime make their way to Tobio’s sushiya. It’s autumn leaves viewing season, and the park they’re moving through now has lanterns lit up all over to highlight the splendour of the maple leaves’ myriad of colours. Tooru stops to admire them, letting Hajime walk on without him.

“Oi! Keep up! You aren’t dawdling so you can ditch, are you?”

Tooru flinches, and hurries to catch up. “Of course not, Iwa-chan. Do I look like I’m the type to dawdle?”

Hajime shoots him a look. “No, but you’re the type to ditch.”

“I was just admiring the leaves. One has to have some respite after looking at your face for so long. It’s supposed to be my day off from you nagging at me, after all.”

“And yet,” Hajime says, “here you are.”

Tooru swallows. “Here I am.”

Hajime stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts walking again. “Don’t be a dick when we get there, Oikawa.”

Tooru sticks his nose up in the air. “I’m never a dick.”

“You aren’t a dick most of the time,” Hajime corrects. “It’s always different when it comes to Kageyama.”

“It’s different because Tobio-chan’s different.” Tooru unclenches his hands from their fists. He hadn’t realized he’d made fists in the first place. “He’s a genius, and I hate geniuses.”

“Only geniuses you were directly competing with,” says Hajime lightly. “I can recall you fanboying over Kaku Michio not even three days ago.”

Tobio’s sushiya looks no different at night than in the day. It’s still poorly lit and too full of reminders of Tobio’s potential. A couple people had been outside when Tooru and Hajime arrived, frowning disappointedly at the closed sign and staring as Tooru slid open the door and ushered Hajime inside.

The only thing that has changed is the painting on the wall; the plum blossoms are gone, and in it’s place, a painting of three sanma done in simple brush strokes.

Tooru hadn’t known that Tobio had good taste in art.

There’s no one at the cutting board, but he can hear yelling coming from the back rooms, and a clatter of something and more yelling.

“I don’t remember it being this loud in here, before,” Hajime mutters.

“He’s got an apprentice,” Tooru tells him, distracted by the crescendoing shouting match between Tobio and Chibi-chan. And then he notices that Hajime is giving him a weird look and realizes what he’s said.

“You’ve been keeping up with Kageyama?” Hajime asks him.

Tooru’s breath doesn’t seem to want to go down to his lungs.

“Of course not!” He blusters. “You can tell by the way they’re yelling at each other. We yell at Mad Dog-chan and Yahaba-chan all the time.”

“Do we?” Hajime muses. “I didn’t think Kageyama would be the type to get an apprentice.”

“Tobio-chan’s always been good at achieving the impossible,” Tooru says, internally willing Hajime to turn to other topics, like the shitty layout of the restaurant, or the disgusting colour scheme, or how the bar table is too high for someone as short as him.

“The impossible, huh?” Hajime looks like he’s about to say something else, but is interrupted by a loud “Grand King! Grand King’s advisor!”

Chibi-chan is balancing a stack of plates taller than him. His arms are straining, but he’s grinning as he looks out from behind them.

“Grand King? Advisor?” Hajime sounds bemused. “Does he mean me?”

“You’re certainly not noble enough to be royalty, Iwa-chan!”

“How the fuck are you Grand King, then?”

“Tobio’s King of the Cutting Board. It only makes sense that I, as his senpai, am a king, too,” Tooru says, poking Hajime in the cheek with a finger.

“You’re clearly not a good king, seeing as you need me as an advisor.”

Tooru ignores Hajime. “Are you usually closed today?” he asks Chibi-chan. “I expected the throne room to have a bigger audience.”

“Sunday night is Friends’ Night In,” Chibi-chan says, putting away the plates. “Tonight, you’re our only friends. But usually, we have quite the party!”

Tooru doesn’t like how Chibi-chan called him Tobio’s friend. “Tobio has friends?” He gives a fake gasp which turns real as Hajime kicks him under the table.

Chibi-chan laughs. “Friends who bring food! Kageyama and I make the sushi, Suga-san brings dessert, Tanaka-san brings the booze, and Noya-san brings his Rolling Thunder coffee. Tsukishima comes but only brings his saltiness.”

“Tsukishima Kei?! The food critic?” Hajime’s mouth is an ‘o’.

“Yeah!” Chibi-chan closes the plate cupboard and turns on the tap to wash his hands. “More often than he’s welcome, mind you. But I suppose it can’t be helped, since his boyfriend works right next door.”

“Tsukishima Kei has a boyfriend?” Hajime’s ‘o’ doubles in size.

“I know,” Chibi-chan says cheerfully, “shocking, right? Since his personality is so undateable.”

Tooru’s attempt at appearing not to be interested fails. “Tsukishima Kei is gay?”

Chibi-chan’s whole demeanor turns defensive. “You have a problem with that?”

“No.” How can Tooru have a problem when he’s… “I just – didn’t know.”

“Well,” Chibi-chan deflates. “it’s not like being gay is something you want to advertise to the public.”

Tooru guesses it isn’t.

“Hinata,” Tobio says. “Quit gossiping and start making rice.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yells Chibi-chan, but does as Tobio tells him to anyway.

Tobio bows to Hajime, and then to Tooru. “Iwaizumi-san, I’m glad you could come. You too, O-oikawa-san.”

He pulls out the stool right in front of the cutting board. “Well, Tobio-chan, let’s get cracking. Although I’m already pretty sure the best dish tonight is going to be my roast.”

“Shittykawa,” Hajime hisses. “Don’t be a dick, remember?”

“I’m not being a dick!” Tooru protests, eyes wide. “I’m bringing Tobio-chan a roast. Isn’t that nice of me?”

“Not if he’s the roast.”

“Relax. I’ll be a good senpai. I’m always a good senpai. Isn’t that right, Tobio-chan?” Tooru flutters his eyelashes at Tobio. Tobio flushes pink.

Hajime quizzes Tobio on his most recent endeavours as Tobio prepares the food. He serves them diced shitabirame with tomato and strawberry, thinly cut squid arranged in the shape of a crane, and sea grapes gunkan, the green of the grapes glittering in the half-light.

Tobio answers all of Hajime’s questions quietly, only getting louder when Chibi-chan makes an excited interjection. Between Hajime and Chibi-chan’s efforts, Tobio is talking more tonight than he’d done when Tooru had been here alone. Tooru supposes that’s to be expected, since Tobio’s always looked up to Hajime, and Hajime had never rebuffed him like Tooru had. Never had to, since Hajime’s never felt threatened by Tobio’s genius.

It’s not like Tobio has ever been reliant on his genius, Tooru thinks as he listens to Tobio ask Hajime questions of his own. He’s over-eager, hard-working, and hungry for success and improvement. He goes at things with a single-minded ferociousness that leaves everyone else in the dust. Tooru’s seen the results of those traits, seen the looks on Kunimi and Kindaichi’s faces as Tobio moved from his place beside the cutting board to behind it while they are still playing with overcooked grains of rice, seen Tobio’s own face, when he realized that nobody at Kitagawa-sensei’s wants keep up. And, if he admits to himself, Tooru isn’t exactly afraid of Tobio’s genius, or his work ethic. It’s the combination of both that puts Tobio so far above Tooru, that allows Tobio to align all the rice grains in his shari in a way Tooru never could.

And it’s because of this that Tooru hates him. That while Tobio is so far above Tooru, he ironically still looks up to him. It’s achingly annoying, that blatant respect and deference, that doggedly persistent admiration, and Tooru wants – Tooru wants to crush him.

“ – Oi! Oi, Shittykawa!”

Tooru blinks, and scowls. “No need to talk so loud, Iwa-chan, some of us still want to keep our eardrums.”

Hajime picks up a piece of squid nigiri with his chopsticks. “Kageyama here asked you a question, but I guess you were too busy having a foodgasm to notice.”

Tobio flushes pink again. Tooru has better control of his blush.

It seems that he has no control of his mouth, though, because he says, “That’s a nice colour on you, Tobio-chan,” before he can help himself. As soon as the words register, his blush escapes his control and he feels his face flare hot and his heartbeat quicken. “Like dead salmon,” he adds, so no one can take him the wrong way.

He taps his fingers on the edge of the bar table. “What is it?” he asks, trying to sound impatient rather than flustered. “You’re keeping me from my quest to find my tastebuds. Your food has wrecked them and scattered them into the dark hole of despair.”

Hajime sniggers. “Here, Oikawa means wrecked in a good way.”

Tobio looks at him, his mouth slightly open, his pupils dilated.

“I mean,” Tooru says, his world spinning faster and faster, “wrecked in a please-let-me-die-before-you-make-me-eat-another-piece way.”

Hajime pops his second piece of squid in his mouth. “Whatever you say.”

“Well?” Tooru asks the box of chopsticks in front of him. “What was the question?”

There’s a pause. A thunderstorm of Tooru’s heartbeats fit in that pause. And then Tobio says, “Nothing. I forgot already,” and places two bowls of eggplant carpaccio on the counter.

It’s nearly midnight when Hajime and Tooru grab their jackets to leave. After the meal, Chibi-chan had brought out the sake and a deck of cards and pestered them into playing a few games with him, and Tooru had sat across from Tobio and watched as he transformed from an angry, intense sushi genius to an awkward, intense poker idiot.

Hajime is chatting with Chibi-chan at the door. Tobio lingers in the shadows, watching as Tooru struggles with his zipper.

Maybe he’s had a little too much to drink, Tooru thinks, and giggles.

“What, no questions like ‘why are you here, Oikawa-san’ this time around, Tobio-chan?”

Tobio steps in and brushes Tooru’s hands away, zipping him up with those long fingers of his. Tobio, he notes, has been filing his fingernails. Tooru had told him that nail-filing was the secret to making good rice, all those years ago. “No,” Tobio says. His breath fans out across Tooru’s shoulder and Tooru shivers. “I know why you’re here. I asked you to come and you came.”

Tobio’s eyes are full of wonder and reverence. Like he can’t believe that Tooru is an actual person existing in front of him. Like his eyes when they followed Tooru around, back when they were still wakiita at Kitagawa sensei’s. It’s achingly – achingly – it’s all ache.

Tooru freezes. His heart thrashes like fresh-caught skipjack in his chest, and he steps back. He clutches his jacket closer and edges away, feet going faster and faster until he breaks into a run past Hajime and Hinata.

“Oi, Shittykawa! What the hell?”

“Oikawa-san!”

Tooru doesn’t look back.

 

_Winter_

__

Winter creeps into Shibuya and settles there. It's a cold one, and no matter how many layers Tooru puts on, the cold is still buried in his bones. All he feels is heaviness. He tells himself it's because of the two thick coats he's wearing, but the weight isn't something he can shake off.

Sometimes, when the sushiya is winding down and Hajime, Kentarou, and Shigeru have all gone home, Tooru finds himself thinking of plum blossoms and sunflowers as he mops the bar floor, of hard lines of mouths and hidden smiles, blue eyes and warm hands zipping up his jacket, and that is when he feels the heaviest.

Hajime doesn't ask Tooru about that night. When Tobio invites Hajime over again, with the invitation extending to Tooru, Hajime just flashes Tooru the text. When Tooru shakes his head, Hajime nods and pockets his phone. He goes over to Tobio's by himself.

Tooru knows Hajime goes over quite often now, because Hajime will show him Tobio’s invites every time. Tooru always says no, and spends his Sunday evenings alone watching documentaries about bugs or a replay of Tekkaman on cable TV, or calling up Mattsun to play Starcraft II: Wings of Liberty, or experimenting with a new lime and ponzu dressing for a salmon tataki. And Hajime doesn’t ask Tooru about this either.

Wednesdays come and go. Once, Tooru thinks he sees a ball of orange hovering outside his shop window. But then Kentarou is tripping over himself and shattering the plates he is carrying and Shigeru is yelling at him and Tooru has to look away and placate them. When he turns back to the window, the orange is gone.

Tsukishima Kei comes to his sushiya late one night, a few days before Christmas. It surprises Tooru because, for the past couple of months, Tsukishima Kei’s food blog has mostly been snarky reviews of “Japanese” restaurants overseas, upending wannabe sushi houses with fairytale lights and tatami mats with Thai cushions and ridiculing fusion ramen joints for their greasy gyoza and their starchy noodles with too much potato. The reviews have become increasingly popular among Tooru’s clients; he’d overhear one telling another about the newest restaurant Tsukishima had flayed alive at least twice a week. And Tooru had read them as well. Though deadpan and seemingly indifferent as Tsukishima’s reviews usually were, they had an undertone of amusement to them, as if Tsukishima himself was actually showing his readers that he had fun writing them. Tooru hadn’t expected him to start critiquing local restaurants again so soon.

But here he is, pulling his noise-cancelling headphones away from his ears and neatly coiling the cord, quietly sipping the tea Tooru had set in front of him, taking off his signature hipster glasses and cleaning them when too much condensation had gathered on the lenses.

Tooru allows him time to look around, putting away the fish he had been slicing in preparation for tomorrow. Tsukishima raises his eyebrows at Tooru’s alien miniatures proudly displayed on the shelf, squints at the bottles of sake behind the cutting board, and narrows his eyes at Kentarou and Shigeru, still in their wakiita uniforms, holding hands and giggling in a corner with a glass of plum wine between them.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Tooru defends them automatically, hoping Tsukishima wouldn’t be offended by the hand-holding, “and they’re off work.”

“They’re cute,” is all Tsukishima says in a drawl that is identical in tone to the voice he employs in his reviews, all boredom and laziness. But there’s an unexpected gentleness in his expression, and Tooru remembers that Tsukishima has a boyfriend himself, that his boyfriend orders takeout from Tobio’s.

His heart throbs, and he hurries to place a small dish of tsukemono next to Tsukishima's teacup.

“What can I get you, Tsukishima-san?”

Tsukishima looks at him appraisingly. “I usually ask for omakase at sushiyas.”

Tooru blinks. “Usually,” he says slowly. “Would you like to try something different this time?”

“Huh.” Tsukishima takes another sip of his tea. “Not bad, Oikawa-san. You’re pretty good at the communications and people thing, aren’t you?”

“If you say so.” Tooru thinks about that unfamiliar spark in Tobio’s gaze, when he’d asked Tooru why he had gone to his restaurant in the spring. He thinks about blue eyes and warm fingers zipping up his jacket, and how his own freezing ones had pushed Tobio’s away. He thinks about how he might be good at the people thing but would never be good at Tobio.

“Well,” Tsukishima says, tapping his nails on the bar top, “I would definitely ask for omakase if I were here as a food critic. But I’m not.”

He drags out his pause. Tooru waits. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kentarou and Shigeru looking over at them curiously.

“I’m here as ambassador to the King. Since he’s bad at the communications and people thing. I thought he’d make up for it by being good at the getting what he wants thing, but apparently he’s bad at that as well.”

“I—”

“The King?” Shigeru interjects. “Of the cutting board? Kageyama Tobio? The one who left Kitagawa-sensei’s sushiya early to start his own?”

“I see you haven’t passed on your people skills to your apprentices yet, Oikawa-san.” Tsukishima rests his head on his hand. “But I guess knowing not to interrupt isn’t exactly a people skill. It’s just basic manners.”

Shigeru flushes red. Kentarou looks ready to rip the food-critic-turned-ambassador apart. “Fortunately,” continues Tsukishima, “I’m good enough at the apprentice thing to know that interrupting people is an annoying trait all apprentices have. Hinata, for example, has an abundance of it.”

“Please forgive his intrusion,” Tooru says, bowing. He makes himself a mental note to give Shigeru dishwashing duty for the entire next month.

“Whatever,” says Tsukishima, looking as indifferent as ever. “Anyway, like I said, I’m ambassador to the King. I’m here to help him get what he wants. As diplomatically as possible.”

“Can you even be diplomatic?” Tooru asks. “I’ve read your reviews, and I wouldn’t use that word to describe any of them.”

“Oh? The Grand King reads my reviews? I’m honoured!”

“Why does everyone call me that?”

“I see you’re very good at changing topics.” The corners of Tsukishima’s mouth curl up. “But I will answer your question. You’re the King’s King, but that’s a mouthful. And anyway,‘Grand King’ sounds more bling if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Tooru says coldly. “Ask.”

“Right.” Tsukishima nods. “You’re the one who does the rebuffing, not the asking.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. What’s the King’s King? What does that mean anyway.”

“Well, you’re the King’s King of the Cutting Board, and the King’s King of the Perfect Rice, and the King of the King’s he—”

“You’re wrong,” Tooru cuts in harshly. “I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

“Do you not? Any opportunity to lord over the King is very appealing to me. This alone gives me enough blackmail material to last an entire year.”

Something in Tooru catches fire and burns. “Do you know what it’s like? Being the King’s King? It’s like being chased by a seine net, still being able to swim, but knowing that in the end, you’re still going to get caught and end up as sashimi.” The words are spilling out of his mouth, loud and barely coherent, and he wants to take them back, shouldn’t be saying them to Tsukishima Kei, who is reviewing his restaurant but not really, of all people. But he is. “It’s awful. And you know what’s worse? Him being all hero-worshippy about it. He looks at me all starry-eyed and asks me to teach him how to perfectly make rice as if he can’t make his own. As if his own isn’t already better than mine.”

“And yet,” Tsukishima says, not at all taken aback by Tooru’s outburst. “You still went to his sushiya every Wednesday in the spring. Why is that?”

“I—”

Tsukishima stands and shrugs on his jacket. It’s a light jacket, but he doesn’t seem to be fazed by the cold outside.

“Thanks for the tea. I’ll leave a nice review.”

__

Tooru didn’t know about the salty food critic called Tsukishima Kei until Makki texted him on Monday and raved about him. Makki never read anything, never texted, and never used punctuation. The fact that the text about Tsukishima’s blog had four exclamation marks indicated that what the critic wrote was a must-read. So, on Tuesday evening, Tooru made himself a cup of tea, snuggled underneath his Star Wars-themed blankets, and pulled up the blog on his laptop.

It’s a treasure trove for trash-talk. Tsukishima’s reviews hit the nail right on the heads of Tooru’s rivals: Bokuto was too chatty and pushy for praise for a meal to be enjoyable, Kuroo’s answers about his craft were too cheesy to be taken seriously (although Tooru particularly enjoyed how Tsukishima showed how aggravated he was by Kuroo in his blogpost), Ushiwaka’s omakase was so self-centred it could hardly be considered omakase at all (he’d made a meal out of vegetables even though Tsukishima had requested for just fish).

The review on Kageyama Tobio’s The Crow and the Roe was ten pages back and dated December 22, 2015, which was, if Tooru remembered correctly, Tobio-chan’s birthday.

Oh my, Tooru thought giddily, what a wonderful present for Tobio-chan!

His heart leapt as he clicked open the page and a close-up of Tobio-chan’s face, complete with his signature scowl and frown, appeared on Tooru’s screen.

Tooru was in for a good ride as he read the title, “Almost a No-Go for the Crow and the Roe.”

_Kageyama Tobio gives me a glare when I ask him why he named his sushiya "The Crow and the Roe" instead of "The Royal Sushi Palace". I am not sure why I've earned that glare, since this sushiya does house a king._

_But it's easy to see why the King of the Cutting Board would not fit in a sunshine- and-rainbows place like a sushi palace. He looks ready to execute me when I order omakase and tell him that I did not like roe, and pettily gets revenge by shoving me a cup of tea that tastes worse than stale piss in a dungeon._

_Kageyama makes me roe onigiri anyway. He smiles at the rice, roe, and nori as he preps them for the dish, his fingers (thankfully clean) assertive and nimble. And it would have been an absolutely poignant sight to see if I hadn't told him I didn’t want roe and if his smile wasn’t the most horrific phenomenon I’d ever witnessed._

_I eat the onigiri. It doesn’t make me want to douse my tongue in anaesthetic or tear it out. Neither does the amberjack sashimi and filefish nigiri Kageyama serves me next, although the plates with the seasonally-incorrect motif of orchids make my eyes wish they did not exist. The food is surprisingly tolerable, considering Kageyama is called King of the Cutting Board for all the wrong reasons._

Tobio could have easily been King of the Cutting Board for the right reasons. Kitagawa-sensei had high hopes for him, Tooru knew. He’d heard Sensei telling his wife about Tobio’s potential one too many nights when he had stayed behind long after closing hours to do the dishes and watch Sensei prep for opening the next day. And Tooru knew this from his own experience, when Tobio had started from as far from the cutting board as an apprentice could be and, within the breadth of an exhale, ended up next to Tooru.

If Tooru hadn’t left Kitagawa-sensei’s for Irihata-sensei’s, he was sure he would have had to witness Tobio eclipse him before he could take another breath.

Or at least, he had been so sure.

In the end, Tobio burned too bright. It happened when Tooru began his second year under Irihata-sensei’s watchful but never interfering eye; suddenly there was gossip that top itamae Kitagawa had denounced one of his apprentices, accusing him of poor work ethic and sabotage. Tobio’s work ethic had never been poor, if only selective, and Tooru knew he would never ever sabotage Kitagawa-sensei’s restaurant or reputation. He would only sabotage the aspirations of others.

_When asked who he looks up to as a chef, Kageyama hesitates. And when I begin to think that he probably looks up to no one, considering he’s pretty much at the top, he says, all flustered and shit (it's quite fetching, really), "When I was still at Kitagawa-sensei's, there was this amazing senpai. They would put so much care and effort into everything they made, choose their ingredients with the customer in mind. They were therefore really good with the clients themselves. I thought Kitagawa-sensei's was an amazing place. But it wasn't; it was that person who was amazing."_

Tooru almost dropped his tea on Darth Vader’s mask. He reread the paragraph, and could feel his heart stumble across the words “flustered” and “amazing.” The worst part was he could imagine Tobio saying it, all soft-eyed and serious and meaning it. Tobio had never subtle about his admiration for Tooru, but still. To hear it after all these years, after all of Tobio’s successes, including his successfulness in picking himself off the ground and starting anew with all the disgrace swirling around him like dust, was so…

Not flattering. Not at all. Just annoying. And unexpected. And curious. Tooru wanted to shake Tobio’s shoulders, tell him to stop it, ask him why.

Tooru was so caught up in the thought of shaking the answer out of Tobio that he only skimmed Tsukishima’s next paragraphs.

_Heartwarming. Kitagawa’s going to have a field day when he reads this. I hope he does. Kageyama refuses go into detail about how said senpai helped shape him into the itamae he is today, but judging from how his winter flounder doesn't taste too flat, this person he looks up to shouldn't be too bad. That is, if Kageyama didn't get his horrible personality from them in the first place._

_Overall, the dining experience was mediocre. The restaurant decor was abysmal and the service sub-par. But despite the itamae's inability to cater to his client’s needs, his passable culinary skills and quickness to rile up made up for it._

**The Crow and the Roe**  
_Tōkyō-to, Shinjuku-ku, Shinjuku, 1 Chome−7−8_  
_Opening Hours: Mon to Sat 11:30 - 14:00, 18:00-23:00_

His phone rang.

“Oikawa?” said Hajime. “Makki just asked me the most random thing.”

“What is it?” Tooru traced the name of Tobio’s sushiya on his screen. C-R-O-W-

“He asked me about Kageyama. About what he thought about -”

“Iwa-chan,” R-O-E, went Tooru’s finger. “Tobio-chan is featured on one of Tsukishima Kei’s blogposts.”

“The food critic?” There was some clicking from Hajime’s end. Tooru spelled out Tobio’s address in the meantime. “Not surprising. Did Tsukishima -”

“Tobio-chan told him about me. Or mentioned me, rather. He said-”

“I’m reading it right now, Shittykawa.” And then Hajime burst out laughing. “Oh my god, he called you amazing? I mean, how do you know he wasn’t talking about me?”

“I don’t -” Tooru’s hand stopped at the ‘S’ of ‘opening hours.’

“I’m kidding,” Hajime said, and he laughed again. “Of course he was talking about you; he always looked at you as if you were his moon and stars. Why, though? I was clearly the better senpai.”

“You were not! And I don’t know! It’s annoying, and humiliating, and -” too much. It’s too much.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Hajime said into the silence. “I want to know too.”

Tooru’s finger glanced over Tobio’s address again. “No,” he said, with perhaps a little less than his usual conviction. “No, I don’t want to.”

 

_Spring_

__

Tobio is chopping scallions when Tooru enters his sushiya, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair falling into his eyes. His movements are surgical, precise, with no wasted effort or time in them.

“Welcome,” Tobio says, without looking up. “Please sit as you please.”

“Your knife is getting dull, Tobio-chan. Back to your old ways, I see.”

Tobio jerks, dropping his knife. His eyes snap up, and Tooru feels like he’s a fish being seared by their brilliant blue. “O-Oikawa-san!”

Tobio’s hand is bleeding. The knife must have nicked it when he’d dropped it. How careless, Tooru thinks, even though his own hands are trembling so hard that if he was holding a knife, he’d drop it as well.

Tooru exaggerates a sigh, his exhale shuddering its way out of his dry mouth. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

Tobio’s eyes flicker down to his hand. “I’m not hurt,” Tobio says, lowering his hand to below the board so Tooru can’t see.

There are still drops of blood staining the scallions, though, and Tooru gestures at them. “You are. Why would you lie about that?”

“I’m not—”

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“At the back.” Tobio sounds mutinous, and Tooru fights back a laugh.

The first aid kit is not a kit. It’s just a small bag of band-aids and a pair of scissors.

“Isn’t this against regulations?” Tooru says as he takes a band-aid out of the bag. “And what are the scissors for, when you don’t even have any gauze?”

Tobio blushes. Tooru thinks that his choice of dim lighting really isn’t bad at all.

“Hand.”

“You don’t have to.”

Tooru huffs. “I’m not going to let you bleed to death, Tobio-chan. Besides, you’re an itamae. Who are you without your hands?”

“People don’t die of tiny cuts,” Tobio says, but holds out his hand anyway.

Tobio’s hand is as warm as Tooru remembers. He holds it steady as he cleans the wound under running water, and sets it carefully on the counter, palm facing the ceiling, as he wrestles with the band-aid packaging.

“Why are you here, Oikawa-san,” Tobio asks in a soft voice as Tooru puts the band-aid on.

“It’s Wednesday, Tobio-chan,” Tooru says, aiming for infuriating but only succeeding in breathless. “Coming here is my favourite Wednesday activity! How can I miss it?” He pats Tobio’s hand and start to move away. “All done!”

Tobio slides his hand back into Tooru’s and holds it tight. It feels like he’s holding Tooru’s heart tight as well.

“Why are you here, Oikawa-san?”

Tooru swallows. He looks down at his fingers, almost laced with Tobio’s own, and swallows again. After all the years of refusal and denial, perhaps they both deserved to know the answer. “I’m here because I like your food, Tobio. I’m here because I like your sushi, and your rice, and the way you never gave up on them even though I refused to show you how to make them.” He holds Tobio’s hand tight as well, like he holds his ingredients, wanting to convey that, to Tooru, Tobio is something beautiful, something rare.

“I hated your persistence then, the way you kept asking me to teach you, kept looking at me with those stupid blueberry eyes of yours. I kept looking back and you were always there. And you’re still looking at me like that, even though you’re way ahead of me now. You can plate when you couldn’t before.” Tooru laughs. “And I lied last year when I said the wasabi wasn’t any good. Why?”

“Why what?” Tobio asks, head bent so that Tooru couldn’t see his stupid blueberry eyes.

“Why – How can you still?”

“Tsukishima came over after he went to your restaurant. He told me how you defended your apprentices and described the sound of your knife on the board and the way you poured him tea. He said he’d give you six stars even though all he had was the tsukemono.” Tobio’s answer is vehement. His grip on Tooru’s hand tightens. He sounds like Tooru had taken his deba knife, dug out his heart, and laid it bare on the cutting board. “It’s only ever been you.”

Tobio’s laid his heart out, and it’s up to Tooru to decide what to do with it.

“Can I kiss you?” Tooru asks, half expecting an answer like, “No, stupid!” Like the ones he’d been giving Tobio for years.

But Tobio’s already sliding his free hand into Tooru’s hair and tugging him closer, and he’s pressing his lips against Tooru’s, then shifting so he can catch Tooru’s bottom lip in between his own, biting at it gently. It makes Tooru’s breath catch, makes him feel like he’s something beautiful and rare, too.

“I knew you put product in your hair,” Tobio mutters as he pulls away. And Tooru lets himself laugh, still breathless but no longer nervous.

“You should put product in your hair, Tobio-chan!” He brushes Tobio’s bangs away from his forehead.

“Like I would ever,” Tobio says, closing his eyes, the dark carbon-steel of his lashes contrasting wickedly with the white of his cheeks.

“Hey, Tobio-chan,” Tooru says. “I’m also here because I wanted to invite you to my place for omakase. Will you come?”

“Only if you drop the ‘-chan.’”

“Like I would ever.” Tooru leans in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [tumblr](http://deadseasalt.tumblr.com) if you'd like to be friends :)


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